


bloodshot eyes in the dark

by nap_princess



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: An ending ...?, F/M, Helsaween, Helsaween 2020, I'm yeeting this fic cause I can't stand editing it a second longer, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Violence, Red Riding Hood AU, fairy tale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/nap_princess
Summary: "Where will you go after this?" He asks her, much too sweetly. His smile never falters. “Will you be going home like you said you would?”— HansElsa, Grimm fairy tale/red riding hood AU(Helsaween 2020: Week 3 — Nightmares)
Relationships: Elsa/Hans (Disney)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	bloodshot eyes in the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Helsa: red riding hood](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703780) by puryartist. 
  * Inspired by [Hanna (2011) movie review](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703790) by Paul Asay. 
  * Inspired by [Handmade Heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703792) by Marina. 
  * Inspired by [The VERY Messed Up Origins of Little Red Riding Hood | Fables Explained](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703795) by Jon Solo. 
  * Inspired by [commission art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703798) by ravinewreyn. 



> Notes 1: I tried to follow old-timey fairy tale formats, but that basically means there are barely any dialogue and mostly description. It _fucking kills_ me because I love conversation, but I feel the need to stick to this theme so that’s my problem lol.

**bloodshot eyes in the dark**

* * *

* * *

Do I find you here, old sinner? I have long sought you.

— **The Huntsman** , _Red Riding Hood_

* * *

**i**

* * *

Even in her twenties, Elsa still believes in fairy tales. It’s difficult not to when her cold isolated world is dull against the vibrant fantasies. Her grandfather doesn’t allow much of the outside into their universe. 

The little cabin they live in isn’t the house Elsa grew up in, it isn’t grandmother’s cottage. That old house can’t be a home anymore; can’t be filled with infectious laughter, the delicious scent of hot chocolate or even warm hugs. Grandmother is dead, and her sister Anna almost died too. It wasn’t safe living there anymore.

Her mama and papa took Anna away, while her grandfather was given the responsibility to look after Elsa while Anna healed. When Elsa was eight, she told herself that her family would come back for her; that it was indeed _her fault_ that Anna got hurt but that it was all a misunderstanding so they can't be mad at her, surely. When she was thirteen, she dove into fabled stories even though picture books were a thing that was much too childish for a person her age. When she was eighteen, she stopped gazing at the fading family portraits that told her she had been happy once upon a time.

Her grandfather hadn’t questioned her when he found all the pictures turned and faced down. Instead, Runeard simply told her to get to her feet. _“There’s so much to do in this cabin,”_ He had said.

And he was right. Every minute _is_ precious, there’s no point wasting it by dilly-dallying, by _feeling_. She could be gathering firewood, hunting game, skinning reindeer. She needs to stop being haunted by the past.

_Conceal, don’t feel._

* * *

Even in the dead of the night when all is quiet, so silent that she can hear the creak outside her frosted window and snow falling off the roof, she’s awake. Sometimes she thinks it’s the voices of the woods pulling her out of her slumber, other times she thinks it’s the wind.

Whatever it is, it must be magic. There is no other explanation. This is what Elsa believes as she peers outside the lonesome cabin. There’s always been this gripping feeling that urges her to grab her red cloak, pull it over her shoulders and run out into the moonlight.

She wants to do it — _again_. But the last time she did, the howl of a wolf spooked her, a bad omen. And then the next day, she received news that her mama and papa had passed away. They told her it was a wolf attack. They told her her parents were planning to make a surprise visit to see Runeard and Elsa after a decade of separation but unfortunately got ambushed on the lonely mountain roads. They told her Aunty Gerda and Uncle Kai had taken Anna in and that they wouldn’t mind taking Elsa in as well. Her grandfather is old, after all. They should give his old bones a rest.

But Elsa didn’t go. Elsa stayed. She felt at fault. She felt the outside was too unfamiliar, _too unknown_. She didn’t attend the funeral.

* * *

She lives deep, _deep_ , **deep** in the forest; where there is as much beauty as there is danger.

Her home is a good quarter of a league farther on, standing under large oak and nut trees. She spends a lot of her time in the woods. She picks berries and flowers and mushrooms, leaves and roots and nuts; she makes traps for small game and fish by the flowing stream; makes bread and pies and cakes; and wears a pretty cloak that no one will ever praise her on. 

(The same cloak that was supposed to be a coming-of-age gift from her mother.)

Despite the opportunity, a lot of the folks know not to risk going into the woods. There are tales of trolls who steal babies to eat their flesh and bones, frightening new mothers and tiny children enough to stay away. They say the Nokk drowns any sorry soul who gets too close to the river, scaring the fishermen from casting their nets. There is even a legend of a voice who howls like the wind, capturing and seducing the old and the young.

Elsa would not be surprised if the villagers soon call her a witch; even Elsa deems it fitting. Elsa could leave to make that possible rumour go away, but that would be risky, wouldn’t it? After everything that’s happened to her family, all the injuries and deaths, it’s much too dangerous.

And for that, Elsa tells herself that she is content, that she cannot be greedy. There is no reason for her to stray far from where she lives.

* * *

Elsa receives an invitation to a wedding when Autumn comes — from her sister who she hasn’t seen in thirteen years. Her sister is getting married to a man Elsa’s never met, a man Anna strongly believes is her _true love_.

Elsa didn’t think Anna would put her on the guest list, they barely know one another. It’s been so long since they last saw each other in the flesh — Anna’s strawberry blonde hair is a blur in her mind, but Elsa can still remember the emotion behind them, those turquoise eyes brimming with fear at age five.

Feeling her grip tightening around the paper in her hand, Elsa immediately regrets crumpling the delicate wedding invitation. Anna and her husband-to-be must have spent a long time picking the card’s style and font and words. And here she is, destroying it easily with her touch.

The guilt doesn’t go away even after she’s smoothened out the wrinkles. Elsa should go, she believes she owes Anna that much. She isn’t sure about her grandfather though. He isn’t the same person he was all those years ago; he’s weaker now and easily tired. He isn’t exactly a festive person either, he’d never agree to travel so far for a social gathering.

Elsa thinks her grandfather wouldn’t agree even if she begged him to come to the wedding. He must be sick of her, or just sick in general. It’s a given that Runeard would much rather spend time with Weselton and the nosy man’s two capable sons. 

This time, Elsa does venture into the unknown.

* * *

She has an errand to run.

In her basket is a cake recipe from their village bakery and a bottle of local wine. In her mind lies an approaching date. Elsa is ready to be useful for Anna; to help, to organise, to repair their sistership in any way possible.

She sets off that same Autumn, taking the first step out of her realm. She walks nicely and quietly and does not stray from the path. Despite the unfamiliar backdrop, Elsa feels armed with her blood-red cloak wrapped around her body and her basket in one hand, filled with more than just drink and goodies.

* * *

**ii**

* * *

She arrives at the humble cottage in the dead of Winter; cold and injured and bleeding. Though, it’s hard to see where exactly her blood has spilt over as her red cape does little to distinguish the two vibrant colours. Her basket slips from her shivering hand and her legs give away.

 _He_ is on his feet quickly, as if on instinct to lick a poor thing’s wounds, as if he smelt her miles and miles away before she even stumbled past the front door. He catches her before she hits the ground. He had caught her so easily, proving himself.

Just before she passes out, one foot already in a faraway dream, she makes several mental notes to herself. That being; his emerald gaze and his deep voice. He talks too much in the midst of her panic over this stranger fretting over this and that. He has a big mouth.

* * *

In her fever dream, memories come flooding back into her — as if she could ever forget all those things that had occurred in her earlier life.

Her childhood home is where she materialises, the place is just as it had been left; decorated with a heart-shaped window and a heavy wooden door. There her grandmother lies slaughtered and her sister hurt; injured by wild wolves who prey on the unfortunate and weak.

 _"Come on, Elsa, let’s go!"_ Dream Anna says, tugging Elsa's hand when her older sister refuses to leave the scene.

There's a smear of blood on her arm now and she stares at the colour blankly.

 _"Come on!"_ Anna pleads. 

'Wait,' Elsa wants to reply but she doesn't. She's frozen, rooted to the spot. She should be fleeing from the imminent danger, but she strangely feels obligated to stay. 

In the distance, the wolves howl from the scent of blood.

_"I want to go home!"_

'But isn't this home?' Elsa wants to argue, her mouth doesn't move.

She wonders how Anna could say such a thing. This cottage is _home_. A home passed down from their great grandmother to their grandmother to their mother.

Elsa should be next in line, shouldn’t she? She's the oldest — she owns this land. 

_"Where are you going?"_ A new voice asks, bloodshot eyes glowing in the dark.

Anna has disappeared from her side; leaving Elsa all alone and forced to reply, _"I'm going home."_

_"You call this cursed land home?"_

The question makes her think. Maybe she _doesn't_ own this land? Or maybe it’s the other way around? Maybe it owns her? Maybe it binds her?

* * *

She wakes up in cold sweat. Her heart pumping rapidly in her chest and her hands grip onto the blanket. Pieces of the nightmare linger, but the crackle sounds from the fireplace soothe her.

Elsa notes the silence before a figure approaches her, pressing a familiar damp cloth to her face.

“Are you awake?” A voice asks, sounding oddly similar to the one in her dream.

Elsa can only shiver in response, too tired from battling the monsters in her head. 

“You should go back to sleep,” The voice tells her.

Elsa wants to say that she doesn’t want to go back to sleep. She wants to leave this place. But something tells her that she’s already doomed herself by venturing past the familiar landmarks. And if she does stray once more, a voice will call out to her, ghosts leading her back, telling her this is her home forever.

“Pleasant dreams.”

Her world fades to dark.

* * *

It is past noon when she discovers herself in someone else’s bed. Elsa’s never been the type to spend her time under covers at such a late hour. It should feel good to be resting like this but she finds her muscles in knots.

When she slowly comes to and her glacier blue eyes are less groggy, the vision of _him_ fills her. _He_ sits by her bed, reading a thick book, a collection of children’s stories bound together. He quickly discards it when he notices her stir. He presses a cold rag to her forehead and then gets her some porridge.

She notes his hair — the colour of fire, like the crackling hearth. It’s as vibrant as her cloak, as red as an apple. It reminds her of her grandfather’s receding hairline too, Grandpa Runeard who never lets her venture off into the woods for too long.

The next thing Elsa notices is his grin. She’s right about his big mouth. He smiles at her — which isn't the first time — but this is the first grin where he shows her his teeth, and she notices that they're _so white_ and _so sharp._

“What’s your name?”

“Hans,”

“Hans _what_?”

He grins again. “Just Hans.”

* * *

**iii**

* * *

Being sick in the Winter months is always dreadful, and it’s unfortunate to find that she is just that. She's sick; feeling oh-so tired, feeling exhaustion in her bones and delirium swimming between her vision. It’s hard to tell what's real and what isn't, it's hard to know when she slips in and out of unconsciousness. 

But when she cracks open her blue eyes and sees him watching her, she knows that _he is real_ and pretends she isn't afraid.

_Conceal, don't feel._

“Don’t you have wood to chop?” Elsa asks him as she sits up.

She’s managed to stay conscious enough times to notice Hans’ habits. He chops wood in the early hours of the morning. Most times she thinks he wakes up at the break of dawn. And the other times she thinks he hasn't slept at all — probably sneaking off into the moonlight and letting her think his woodwork is all he has.

(Not to say that he isn’t suspicious to her in daylight when the birds are perched on high tree branches and the flowers that grow near are in full bloom, there is something about Hans that doesn’t sit well with Elsa. Regardless, he hasn’t done anything dangerous — _yet_ — and she isn’t all healed up either to protest her current state.)

“We have plenty for now.” Hans answers with a hum then sits by the fire, still watching her with those green eyes of his.

She stares back at him as if in a contest before asking, “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”

Hans lets out a chuckle, finding her funny. “Forgive me, I’m simply inspecting your health.”

“I suppose that’s your reasoning for staring at me while I’m asleep too?” Elsa huffs.

"Would you rather I not? Your fever is no small feat. If I neglect to check up on you then it might turn for the worse and you may never wake."

Elsa is quiet for a moment. The idea of arguing with Hans already exhausts her. But she still has questions that need answers. “Where is my basket?”

“Tucked under the bed, your cape is by the door on the coat hanger.” Hans replies, now grabbing the same thick book and opening its pages.

“You haven’t snooped through my basket, have you?”

“Of course not, what do you think I am if not a gentleman?”

She raises a dark brow. “I don’t know. A stranger?”

Her answer isn’t mocking nor cruel. It's a given that Elsa’s main goal is to leave the abode. She’s eager to continue whatever she’s got planned; her tolerance for her bedridden state hasn’t exactly been concealed and she hasn’t shown much curiosity due to her constant slumber. 

Today though her eyes seem less glassy and her cheeks pink with health. Hans wonders if this means Elsa will slowly start opening up to him, putting a foot through her previously shut door.

“Where are you headed, you haven’t exactly told me how you ended up here? Are you a traveller or a local?” He attempts at conversation, hoping she’d leave bits of herself with him. 

Elsa presses her lips together into a thin line, not wanting to answer Hans’ inquiries no matter how inquisitive he is.

When it dawns on him that Elsa will not offer a reply, Hans simply grins at her and says, “Secretive, aren’t you?”

* * *

Her sister calls out to her once more, her voice distorted and faraway.

Mist leaks under the front door and long branches block every exit. Elsa has learned that she does not have the same freedom that most people have. _She’s trapped_ ; stuck in the little cottage with blood between the floorboards and red stains on the walls.

This scene before her is too frightening to be real, too wicked. Her limbs feel stiff and her screams lost. She’s struggling hard when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey. _Hey,_ ”

Elsa flinches, her body lurching. She glares with sleep in her eyes and only calms when she remembers who the silhouette belongs to — oh yes, _Hans._ She’s talking to Hans.

“Are you okay?” Hans asks.

Elsa tames her messy bedhead and nods.

“Do you want to talk about your nightmare?”

The gaze that rests on her clasped hands flit over to his face. He has such large ears, a part of her wonders if it's the reason he wants his space to be filled with words.

(The other part suspects his ears are useful for other things aside from their talks; for him to hear better; to notice the creaks and groans and cries of the forest.)

“No,” Elsa replies.

“Do you want to talk in general?”

“No.” She repeats.

His face twists. “You know, you’ve been staying here for a while now, but I don’t know much about you.”

Hans has allowed Elsa to sleep in this bed, rest by the fire, eat the food he's gathered from the forest but he doesn’t even know her name. He calls her ‘Red’ everyone once in a while, referring to her cape. However, it's clear that he is suspicious of her, she can’t blame him. 

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a witch." He says to her silence. "What other reason would there be for a young woman to be wandering all alone in the forest?"

Hans wouldn’t be the first to make that assumption. Elsa herself thinks there must be something wrong with her. Why else would she continue to entertain the idea of living in a house that haunts her wakefulness as much as her sleep?

But she cannot show him weakness. So she tells him, “You’re talking nonsense.”

* * *

Elsa refrains from talking about anything personal anytime Hans coerces her. She won’t talk about her dear sweet sister Anna and that fiancé of hers. She won’t talk about her grandfather back in his cabin. She won’t talk about anyone, including herself.

Even if he pleads, Elsa plans to withhold any information from passing her lips. Elsa thinks Hans is asking for _too much_ , like a pauper asking for riches and jewels and a golden crown. What does he want from her?

“What about you then?” Elsa once asks Hans.

“I’m a simple woodcutter,” Came his reply.

“I see. Then I’m just someone lost in the woods.”

His shoulders sag in defeat but it’s a better posture than Hans being on guard all the time. Elsa supposes Hans thinks he is lucky. Lucky that she is too ill to do much but rest. He is still curious of her, but seldom watches her as intensely as he used to and she _will_ use this to her advantage.

* * *

Anyone would think her silly for suspecting the worst in Hans. They would argue that he is nothing more than a hospitable man and that she’s crazy for thinking otherwise. However, her gut tells her that she is _just right_ for not trusting Hans.

She doesn't trust that mouth, those teeth, those big ears and his bright green eyes. They haunt her, reminding her of something familiar from a childhood nightmare that comes at her as she slips in and out of sleep.

Elsa knows that she will see exactly what she's been waiting for if she lays low; embodying the cunning predators of the woods; patient and always planning.

She’ll wait and _wait_ and **wait**. And when her chance comes, she will grab her basket and smile at its weight.

* * *

Laying in bed reminds her of her grandmother. It must have been horrible being confined to one place for hours on end. Elsa can't help but feel that her life is incomplete, wasting away as the hours pass.

"I'm off," He tells her as he stands by the front door with an axe in hand.

She pretends she doesn't hear him, pretends she is asleep. It is nightfall and not hard to believe.

He leaves without checking on her, and when the door swings shut and the soft crunch of snow under his boots fade, she leaves the warm bed and dons on her cape. She will carry out her plan. She will follow him, become as silent as a lamb and sneak off to see what he’s been doing under the moonlight.

* * *

**iv**

* * *

On the day she feels strong enough to stay on her feet, Elsa takes out the recipe given by the baker and rolls up her sleeves.

As the cake rests cooling near the heart-shaped window, Hans returns from the woods. He spots her patiently waiting for him and asks, "What's the special occasion?"

She fakes friendliness, “I’m headed home.”

“Home?”

She wonders if he will fake sadness at her sudden departure. Will he say he’ll miss her when she is absent? Hans did tell her that he lived here all alone in the forest, giving the impression of a lonely man who is welcoming to any company, even if it’s a temporary one.

He tried to pass himself as a fellow who can be trusted but Elsa is sure now of his charade; she’s seen him for _what_ he is, _who_ he is.

“Yes, I haven’t returned for years now.” She nods, leaving _bread crumbs_ about herself; little things dropped here and there. “I desperately miss it.”

“I can imagine. You spoke about your home often,” He says, turning her blood ice cold for a moment.

Her heart hammers in her chest and she tries to steady her voice as she asks, “I did? When?”

“You talk in your sleep, did you know that? You uttered the word ‘home’ a lot.”

“I …” She catches herself, trying to calm her nerves. 

“It must be unbearable to be put in such a tight spot.” He tells her.

“It is,” Being so far away from the cottage in her mind — from all the people she loves — is difficult.

She feeds him wine from her basket and a slice of cake, telling him it is a good-bye present. He devours her gifts without asking any questions, not wanting to be rude, an accusation she made some time ago.

She smiles at him and makes him believe he is safe.

“When will you leave?”

“While the sky is still awake." Elsa says vaguely.

.

.

.

He soon falls into a deep sleep; too drugged from the cake to defend himself, too intoxicated from the poisoned wine to hide. The full moon shows itself and then his true form.

.

.

.

This was her home, her family's cottage. The one inherited from her grandmother. And here he is — the monster hiding in her bed — waiting for her all this time after having infiltrated her home, hiding in plain sight.

Did he really think that he can tuck himself away from her? This hunt is on equal grounds. She stalked him for several months before she was wounded. He must have thought that was the end for her. But she knows secrets to this place that he does not. She pulls the bobbin, opens the door and aims for his heart.

He is hiding under the bedclothes when she confronts him. He tells her to go away, his deeper voice coming out in a snarl. He says he is sick, lies that a flu of sorts is behind his new tone, but it is no use.

She raises her crossbow, the one that was hidden in her basket. Her grip is strong but her aim is shaky, she is overwhelmed. His emerald eyes have grown large and his freckled hands turned to sharp paws.

“I was right,” She says, more to herself than to him. “You _are_ a wolf.”

“You knew?” He asks, looking like nothing that resembles a man.

“I knew from the start,” She tells him, her lips trembling. 

.

.

.

He gives chase, slamming into furniture and turning the neat space into chaos. He goes out of the heart-shaped window and she runs after him.

Runs runs runs as fast as she can away from the cottage at the edge of the woods. Her cloak snags against claw-like branches and prickly seeds, the damn thing is more a nuisance than useful.

She passes by bushes and shrubs before a flash of red comes into view. At first, she thinks it is the bushy tail of a fox — but then she sees glowing green eyes and a monstrous form, and she knows that the wild thing in the woods will not be forgiving.

But she isn’t scared. Her grandfather has taught her everything she needs to know. How to hunt. How to fight. She’s gutted reindeer, she’s skinned rabbits and squirrels. She’s had her fair share of killing.

“Shall I ask you why you’re so hell-bent on killing me?” He asks her, looking wild and angry.

“Protection,” She replies. 

"Protection? Against who? Me? If I had wanted to kill you, wouldn't I have already done so?" He says logically. When she shows no sympathy nor any signs that she is mistaken, he tells her, "I'm not the wolf you're looking for."

"I was attacked before I came here, I know it was you in disguise." She says to him, never lowering her weapon. “You’ve been toying with me since, pretending to be a friendly woodcutter. You wanted me to gain your trust and you thought I had,”

"You might not believe me, but I am not as strong as I look. I was born thirteenth of the wolf pack. I was the youngest, the weakest. I wasn’t accepted and had no place hunting with them. I never took part in whatever happened. I am a stranger to you."

"No." She shakes her head, her cape bright under the moonlight. "You’re lying!”

"You're mistaken.”

"My grandfather hunted wolves, he must have hurt someone you loved; your parents, your siblings, a friend. You and your pack then hunted my family in return. We are both acting on revenge."

"Your bloodline is your business. We are not the same. I've never hurt you, even now I'm simply running away from you. I am acting on instinct,"

He's making her feel bad for him, acting like he's not in the wrong. She knows he acted on those murders, she can never forget those emerald eyes. She stared straight into them the day the big bad wolf attacked Anna.

If Elsa lets Hans live then he will only continue to hurt those who she loves and cares about; her sister, Anna’s fiancé, Uncle Kai, Auntie Gerda, her grandfather.

There is no point talking to Hans, he will not offer her any replies that will satisfy her burning curiosity. He will not tell her why he did it, why he killed off her family one by one, why he attacked her on the way to grandmother’s cottage and then let her live. What is the point of asking a monster why he is a monster?

Her expression as she thought these things must not have been concealed well because his grin returns, his teeth sharper.

"Where will you go after this?" He asks her, much too sweetly.

She knows she shouldn’t speak a word to him but the words in her head threaten to slip out. She doesn’t know if she can stop herself.

His smile never falters. “Will you be going home like you said you would?”

Of course, she wants to return. Her soul cries out for it but she herself presents a paradox of sorts. Her nightmares confuse and haunt her. She doesn’t know if she’s running away or towards home. She wants to be somewhere safe; a place where there is peace, sanctuary and a sense of belonging — wherever and whatever that might be.

However, the home she craves is no more; her mama and papa are gone, Anna is getting married and the wolf must never know about her whereabouts, her grandfather is too old to care for her at his cabin anymore. And the little cottage with the heart-shape window is nothing but an empty shell. It can’t be a place for the living.

“Do you even know where you are? Are you still lost in the woods?” He goes on, unafraid, showing her his row of teeth. “It’s unfortunate that you’re someone who doesn't have a place to call home,”

His words hurt, like a hand crushing her heart, and the last thing she wants is to see red.

The arrow flies.

* * *

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes 2: This has been something I’ve been wanting to do for a bit. I’ve dropped hints in **Helsaweek 2020** and **Ravine** was kind enough to draw me art based on the concept — mostly from **forest of hands** but this fic is the true drive.
> 
> — 21 October 2020


End file.
